Each night, hours after the boys have gone to bed, I make my way upstairs.
Usually with a basket of laundry on my hip, I haul my tired self up the stairs.
It's an almost rhythmic routine. Walk to my room, put the laundry down. If it's summer, turn on the ceiling fan. Shut the shades. Pull back the covers.
Walk to Caleb's room to shut off his lava lamp and music and tuck him in. Walk to Noah and Eli's room to do the same.
Except that night was different. As I walked into Caleb's room, the lava lamp and music were already off. As was his fan. The room was still and dark and quiet. And Caleb was not in his bed.
I turned and walked into the other boys' room. The thunderstorm continued outside. Eli hates thunder.
I looked down and saw it. Saw them. In the midst of the storm, Eli had called Caleb in to sleep with him. There they were, cuddled up. Big brother looking out for little.
Not only did the gesture itself touch me, but, strange as it sounds, I was also impressed by the simple responsibility. Caleb had turned off his light, his music and his fan.
Maybe it was the talk we had about not giving away non-perishable items in their lunches. About being smart with our money. About not wasting. Maybe it was hearing us say "turn off the lights" for years. Echoing the time-honored phrase, "We don't own the electric company." Or maybe they are picking up on the stress associated with going to one salary at this point.
But whatever it was, it registered.
My biggest boy was both empathetic to his brother and to us. And I was proud.
